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"Marnie, stop it," Sutton warns, her eyes avoiding his. "He's crazy."
"You should listen to your friend, love."
Marnie whips around and looks at him. "Do not call me 'love.' It's creepy."
"What makes it creepy?"
"First, you're not British. That's the only way you could get away with something as cringy as that. It just sounds predatory, actually."
He laughs. "You wish,love."
The emphasis on the word love makes her crinkle her nose. She has a cute nose. That's not something he's ever thought about until her.
Before Marnie can respond, he stands and walks out to his bike. He sits on it and lights a cigarette. It's a common game the two of them play ever since she drunkenly started talking to him one night a few months ago. He used to hate her, but ever since that night, they both seem to get a kick out of pushing each other's buttons. The way she tries to get a reaction does something unexpected to him.
"Those things will kill you," her voice calls out as she walks up to his bike. "Plus, no girl worth kissing ever wants to kiss a guy who smokes. Why don't you just carry a used ashtray around with you and let her lick it? Then again, that might be a better experience for her now that I think about it."
His eyes lock with hers, and he can’t determine whether her eyes are green or hazel. They seem to change slightly with her mood, and tonight they look much greener than earlier. "You really get your rocks off by tearing me down, don't you?"
"What year were you born? Get my 'rocks' off? I stand by my statement about your age."
"I'm not hip with the slang these days. I never was when I was younger, either, so it's not super surprising. But you didn't answer my question."
Squaring her shoulders, she stares hard into his eyes.They’re definitely green right now.
"It's not hard to do. You make it pretty easy. I do have one piece of advice for you, though."
Lifting an eyebrow again, he takes one last drag from his cigarette before tossing it, barely smoked. Now he'll have to quit one of the only habits he has that makes him feel a semblance of happiness. "Yeah, what's that?"
"You should figure out something better with your hair. You look like a brunette Justin Timberlake from the nineties with that curly noodle hair."
His hand reaches up to feel the curls he hates. Always has, and she found the one insecurity she could have exploited. "Any suggestions, love?"
"Yeah, shave it off."
Smirking, he nods. "But if I shave it off, you'll have nothing to grip onto when I'm making you scream out in pure, mind-blowing pleasure."
Crinkling her nose again, she shakes her head. "You wish."
"Oh, I do, love. I really do. The things I could do to you."
"The age difference doesn't bother you?"
Venom smiles. She sounds intrigued more than disgusted. "Trust me, we're not that far apart. After all, I'm not actually fifty. And we both know I don't look it, either."
Against her will, she smirks. "Forty-eight?"
"I guess those cigarettes must have aged me more than I thought."
She crosses her arms over her chest, and her eyes glare into his. "Okay, I give up. How old are you, Venom?"
"Thirty-two. I'm not even a decade older than you."
"May as well be. We have next to nothing in common except our mutual hatred for each other."
"Is that what you really think I feel for you?" he asks and moves away from his bike to stand just inches from her face. "That I hate you?"
To her credit, she doesn't back away. "I despise you."
